The Death Messenger (Matthew Ryan Book 2)(13)

‘You reckon she’s a God-botherer?’

O’Neil narrowed her eyes. ‘Why d’you ask?’

‘She used the word “evil”. I always think it’s old-fashioned, almost biblical. Like “sinful”. Chance would be a fine thing. Whatever her motivation, I’m guessing it involves some form of abuse. She’s paying her victims back for something in her past. She said as much on the tape, didn’t she?’

‘Or someone is,’ O’Neil corrected him.

‘You have a theory?’

‘Nothing concrete.’ O’Neil bit her lip. ‘I know Ford is an idiot, but something he said to me struck a chord. I can’t remember his exact words. It was about the woman witnessing the offence, knowing who was responsible, not shopping them—’

‘And you shot him down. Rightly so, in my opinion.’

‘At the time, yes. However, there is another scenario.’

Ryan waited.

O’Neil was still formulating a theory. He was happy to be her sounding board. He might not agree with all or part of it, but it was important to let her finish processing her thoughts. That was his plan at any rate. Seconds later, it fell apart when O’Neil began to hypothesize.

‘What if she’s not a relative or girlfriend but a stalker turned voyeur, getting her kicks by looking on?’

‘At three crime scenes hundreds of miles apart?’ Ryan was shaking his head incredulously.

‘You’re wise to be sceptical,’ she said. ‘I know it sounds a bit far-fetched, but bear with me. On the way over here you asked why she hadn’t gone the whole hog and given us the footage of an offence taking place – assuming her motivation was to shock us. But what if she couldn’t?’

‘Because?’

‘Maybe she saw it happen but couldn’t record it, so she returned to the scene with her camera afterwards.’

‘Then why is she telling us after the event instead of warning us beforehand? Why not help us put a stop to it?’

‘Because she finds it fascinating.’ O’Neil paused, allowing him time to reflect. ‘Ryan, think about the way she put that tape together. Like a movie scene, you said. Like shooting it was something important to her, something she must get right—’

‘She said the victims deserved it. How would she know that if she had nothing to do with it?’

‘I don’t have all the answers. I’m putting forward suggestions. Stalkers are obsessive. They monitor their prey. Idolize them. Go to great lengths to track them down. Follow them wherever they go. Wouldn’t a person like that be capable of justifying anything, even murder?’

‘I’m not saying that there’s no stalking going on. Just that they’re in it together. If it’s not revenge, it’s a game, a thrill thing—’

‘Exactly my point! Remember Wearside Jack, the Ripper hoaxer? He played that game. He was so turned on by murder he wanted to get involved. He taunted the police with letters and an audiotape – “I’m Jack, catch me if you can” – or words to that effect. His message was also sent to an assistant chief, as I recall. He had no connection whatsoever with Sutcliffe, which is what made finding him so very difficult. Twenty-five years it took. Twenty-five! That would see you and I well into retirement.’

‘I see where you’re coming from, but I still think she’s up to her neck in a partnership. Gut feeling? It’s a bloke and he’s the killer—’

O’Neil looked at him. ‘So what does that make her?’

‘I have no idea.’ That answer would keep them both awake tonight.





6


They left the pub and fought their way through a fog of smokers sitting outside. Girls hung about in ankle-breaking eight-inch killer heels and less clothing than was sensible on a dank December night. They were all tipsy, much like the blonde Ryan and O’Neil had encountered inside. Blokes, well dressed and toned, watched the girls; both genders on the prowl like peacocks on parade.

Tucking her hair into her coat, O’Neil pulled up her collar. ‘What I wouldn’t give for a night on the razz.’

The comment surprised Ryan.

‘What?’ she said. ‘You think I don’t like to party?’

‘Did I say that?’

‘Your face did it for you.’

Ryan knew nothing of her private life . . . yet. He hoped that might change the longer they worked together. Hoping there would be an opportunity for time off at some point, he was about to offer to take her to dinner when her mobile rang, causing him to hold off.

O’Neil stopped walking, fumbling her phone from her bag. Ryan glanced at the imposing Crown Court immediately across the road. On the opposite side of the junction, festive lights were hung around the Eye On The Tyne public house. All the bars and restaurants along the waterfront were gearing up for Christmas. When he glanced at his guv’nor, her glum expression gave away the caller’s ID. He half-expected her to hurl the device over her shoulder into the inky river behind them. Instead, she moved closer so he could listen in.

She smelt good.

She lifted the phone to her ear. ‘What can I do for you, sir?’

‘Where the hell have you been?’ Ford yelled. ‘I’ve been trying to raise you.’